


Tropism

by philomel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Angst, First Time, M/M, Pre-Series, Underage Sex, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:29:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philomel/pseuds/philomel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring is the hardest for Sam.</p><p><span class="small">Set pre-series through 4.22.</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Tropism

He'll wait until there's no more waiting to do.

Sunshine through thick glass, smell of cut grass through open windows. These are things that people look to every day; spring tugging them up, sleepy out of winter. These are things they pass by.

Spring is the hardest.

Always has been.

****

Restlessness commingles with anxiety. Green and warmth draw him outside, away from books. School pulls him forward, on a lead of hope — that thin but persistent tether. Dad reels him back in: another case, another town, another school.

By spring, Sam worries more than ever about finishing his grade. He pleads a little harder: "Just stay here one more month, Dad. Come on. One, just one."

If he gets held back, he may never get out.

It's an insect-itch on his skin, a fever-burn that keeps him kicking the sheets at night, sleepless and running in circles in his mind.

He watches Dean sleep. Hates that he sleeps. Triumphs when he tosses and turns. Turns over when Dean wakes up to find Sam watching him.

****

In South Carolina, he'll sleep outside and get bitten eleven times by mosquitoes before dawn.

In Kentucky, he'll fall asleep wasting batteries over library books that aren't part of his reading list, but he thinks will come up in class soon. Next school, maybe, next year.

In Michigan, he'll tuck himself in, blankets up to his chin, wearing Dean’s last clean pair of socks over his own, the heater sputtering in the motel room, because spring forgot to come up with them from the south.

In California, he'll shed winter again, covers accordioned at his feet, tapping to the music that blares through the barrio well into the wee hours when Dean finally comes home.

In Oklahoma, he'll camp out under the stars, in the field behind their shack of a rental, crickets chirping so loud he counts the stars to try to get to sleep. The crickets shut up, for a second, when Dean comes rustling through the stalks with his pillow and sleeping bag, and Sam stops counting.

****

The first time he knows he has to leave is the first day of spring. Junior year. Van Buren High. Keosauqua, Iowa. 5:58 a.m. Birds chirping and the room too warm already, because spring came early two days ago, jumping the gun, shooting down winter, snowfall bleeding into the ground, running the rivers over. Mud and gnats in March. Dirt under his nails and buzzing in his ears. Repercussion of gunshots a few hours earlier. Too exhausted to shower. Too exhausted to sleep. Dad snoring and snoring, a steady hum. Breeze coming through the cracked-open window, a tease. Not cool enough, not consistent.

Sitting on the bed, thinking about getting up, going to the window, getting to that breeze, pushing the window all the way up, stick on the ground to prop it up if he needs it. What he needs is to sleep. He sits.

Still sitting, listening to Dad snore, listening to Dean wheeze lightly through his nose, watching the rise and fall of Dean's back out of the corner of his eye. Steady, steady, in and out. In and a trickle of sweat catches the light, catches his eye. Out he breathes shakily, counterpoint to Dean. In with Dean, watching, watching the sweat run down his bare back. Out, over the slope from spine to side. His hand goes in, in as the sweat disappears under covers. He reaches under the thin cover of cotton and touches himself. Up, as Dean's shoulders roll up on an inhale. Down, as Dean's back bows on an exhale.

Sitting with his hand in his underwear, sticky around his soft cock, until the sun rises and wakes Dean.

Still, sitting still when Dean stretches and yawns and rolls over and sees him.

Sees his little brother with his hand in his pants and his eyes on him.

Sees Dean palming himself through a morning erection.

Covers down, boxers down. Sun coming up through the trees, through the window. Sam sees everything: Dean stroking himself, spreading his legs, crooked on the mattress. Dense thatch of hair pushed down with his fist. Jostling of his balls as he speeds up. Tremble of his thighs. Teeth reddening his bottom lip. His mouth opening.

Sam hears his name.

He's gone before Dean can say it again.

****

Going away to college is a rite of passage. But he's just passing through.

He knows that, but pushes himself on.

Until he meets Jess on spring break, when everyone is supposed to be gone. Just him and the books and the silence left behind. But this girl too, this girl.

She'll sit on his window sill, later, with her long legs open, toes curling into the carpet, while he's on his knees, waiting for her to come for him.

****

When Dean comes for him, it's always too late.

In Palo Alto, he's already moved on.

In Twin Lakes, he's already taken.

In Cold Oak, he's already dying.

In Pontiac, he's already gone.

He doesn't know why Dean waits around for something that's no longer there.

He doesn't know why he keeps slowing his step, so Dean doesn't lag behind.

****

It catches up to him.

Everything's reborn in spring.

Dean says his name, says his name, says his name.

It whispers through the cracks of thunder like a soft, soft wind. Not cool enough in the surge of heat. But enough to wake him.

His skin is dry, it doesn't fit him. He blinks back the film from his eyes. Lilith’s laughter rings in his ears. Ruby’s betrayal sings through his veins, and the blood drains from him, leaves him lightheaded.

He fumbles and finds himself fallen.

There is a false light and, outside of the convent, birds begin to sing, thinking the sun has come.

He waited as long as he could. It's too late. The green is gone from Dean's eyes. But he holds on as everything whites out. White heat burning, but nothing like the heat of Dean's palm on his chest, his breath coming warm and fast near his neck. Dean grips him tightly and Sam holds on, waiting to be pulled out.

He's been waiting for so long.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: raynemaiden.


End file.
